


the edge of a life (in the present tense)

by notcaycepollard



Series: a flame in two cupped hands [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Endgame, Various Background Relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 19:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: Hey, Iron Man, Natasha says, and Tony wants to hug her or weep, he doesn't know which.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Series: a flame in two cupped hands [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538677
Comments: 108
Kudos: 892





	the edge of a life (in the present tense)

_Hey, Iron Man, _Natasha says, and Tony wants to hug her or weep, he doesn't know which.

She's so young. _Christ _she's so young; was she ever this young the first time? It doesn't seem possible. But they all look young now: Rhodes, walking him off the tarmac without needing a goddamn artificially braced spine. Pepper—still his assistant, and he takes the soonest opportunity to fix that one, if only because seeing her every day is too much to bear—and Happy. His own damn face in the mirror. His body feels the same and then it doesn’t; Afghanistan was enough like the end of the world, he guesses, but a week in and his chest hurts so goddamn much he wakes up in the night clawing at it. Shrapnel he’d had ten years to forget about, and an arc reactor he can’t take off, god, it’s enough to invent Extremis all over again just to get a little relief.

Seeing Natasha is enough to startle him. _Romanoff_, he wants to say, _my god, did you wake up too? _If this is some kind of time loop, some sideways bullshit with the Pym particles that’s shoved him backward into his own body, he’s already fucking it up; surely he can’t make it much worse just by asking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says instead, and Natasha gives him an unimpressed look that’s familiar and kind of confusing all at once.

“Come on,” she says, “let's get brunch. You're buying,” and pitches him on the Avengers over organic smoothie bowls, green juice and fresh-squeezed California orange mimosas.

“I don't—I'm not running combat,” Tony tells her. _I'm tired. I'm done. I fought so much, Romanoff, you know that, aren't you exhausted? Don't you just want to lie down and rest? _

She's not exhausted; she's sharp and funny, happy in a way Tony doesn't understand. Calls herself _Natasha Ivanova_, and then _Natalie Rushman_, and it confuses him all over again. Is she making some kind of pointed fucking reference, or is that just a standard code name she’s been assigned to operate under? It’s impossible to tell. He drinks his green juice, tries not to lose himself in picking apart all of these facts like they might ever mean something. 

Natasha is—she’s strange. _Weird_, like she’s been replaced by some ersatz version of herself. She took him for brunch, for Christ’s sake. Cracks jokes, orders mimosas at midday. Pulls out her phone and takes a photo of her juice and acai bowl, texts it to someone while smiling a little to herself. “My sister,” she says, when she catches Tony watching. “She doesn't believe in my ability to eat real food when she's not around, it's easier just to prove I'm being an adult and eating a vitamin,” and Tony frowns, because come on, Natasha, when the fuck has she ever had a sister. _We're her family_, he thinks, and his chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with the palladium in the arc reactor.

“You got a lot of family, Natalie Rushman?” he asks her later, when they're both champagne-drunk enough he can ask a personal question like that and actually want the answer. Natasha squints at him from where she's slouching in the booth. Tucks her hair back behind one ear.

“Yeah,” she says, “a bunch. Sisters, mostly, but they're all younger than me, so don't you fucking think about it.”

“I'm offended,” Tony says, “I'm offended that's where you'd go, my reputation is impeccable on that front,” and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Right, okay. Anyway, you're holding out for Ms Potts, right? Pepper? Or have you not figured out that what you're feeling is a feeling?”

“Pepper,” Tony starts. Thinks about it a minute, Pepper's smile, her laugh, the way her fringe always gets too long before she remembers to book a trim and she spends a week blowing it out of her face every third word. How up at the cabin her freckles had come out every summer, scattered over her shoulders and the bridge of her nose until there were so many he couldn't count them all. How she'd learned to knit while she was pregnant and had quit once she'd had Morgan, so that all of her hand-knit sweaters had been permanently too-big for her, slouchy and loose once they no longer had to fit over her belly. “You know what? We're not drunk enough to be having this conversation.”

“Fine,” Natasha shrugs. “Let's do some vodka shots and we can have it after. I'm Russian, right, I can drink vodka at two in the afternoon. And you're Tony Stark; that's just Tuesday for you, huh.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “that’s me,” and it was, once. Could be again. It's not like he has the cabin anymore. 

He'd wondered, when he first opened his eyes, whether this was hell. Doesn't believe in it—doesn't _want _to believe in it—but, Jesus, he'd woken up there in the Afghanistan desert, hurting all over, shedding bits of heavy iron armor, and for a solid minute he'd just wanted to lie down and let the sand cover him. He's just—he's so _tired, _god he's tired, and when he figures out he has to live this all over again it feels like too much to carry. He’s younger than he’s ever been; he feels like he’s been alive for a thousand years.

Romanoff is different than he remembers. Ivanova, not Romanoff, and apparently she’s got a family here; she might just be fucking with him. It’s hard to tell. The _world _is different than he remembers; he looks for Hydra, doesn't find them. Alexander Pierce is dead, and Rogers is awake already, Barnes too. _Why_, he wants to ask, _why, how? What happened here, that it’s all just an inch off-center from the way it should be? Where the fuck did I wake up?_

His phone rings, and it’s Natasha: looking for a favor. He almost hadn't answered; had sat in his lab staring at his new suit, wondering why he'd even bothered to make it. If he hadn't, would it have stopped everything being set in motion? Would Earth have gone on, unaware of the risks, the idea anyone might ever need a suit of armor around the world? It'd been too much; he'd felt more than ever the exhaustion of these unknowable decisions. The desire to lie down and end it: _it's okay. You can rest now._ Then his phone had rung. _Natalie Rushman._

She needs a favor, and it's such a clean ask: save someone's life, that's all. Sam, of course, but not just Sam. _Riley_. It's such a little thing, and he doesn't know Sam enough to really know how deep it cuts, but he knows enough; knows that every December fifth Sam will drive out to Virginia, will come back serious and a little too quiet. 

He can't save Riley entirely, sees the RPG hit his wing and the shrapnel explode in a shower of deadly sparks, but he can catch him out of the air, can fly him to the field hospital in time for them to save his broken spine.

“Thanks,” Natasha says, “thanks, Tony,” and he shrugs even though she can't see him.

“He's gonna need physical therapy, right? Assistive devices, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Natasha says. “Too early to tell. They said he'll probably walk again, but—why?”

“Just wondered if I could help,” Tony says, doing his best to make it come out casual. “Figured, you know, if I can build a damn robot suit in a cave in Afghanistan, I can probably build assistive exoskeletons in my Malibu mansion basement, right? You know I need a challenge or I'll drive everyone crazy, myself included.”

“Sure, okay,” Natasha says. “I'd put you in contact with someone, but honestly, you'd be better off just going straight to Rhodes yourself. And Tony?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks,” she says again, “I mean it,” and it's so gentle that he wants, again, to lie down in it.

She calls him again later, a couple months down the track, and there's noise in the background: kids, maybe, girls talking in more than one language and all at once so it's just a layer of blurred sound.

“Hey, Rushman. What's cooking?”

“I need your help again,” she sighs, and he laughs a little. Transfers the call to his earpiece.

“Who do you need me to rescue this time?”

“Just me,” she says, voice wry and a little rueful, “I'm trying to figure out my baby sister's math homework and I remembered I don't understand algebra at all.”

“You called me because you need help with your baby sister's math homework,” Tony repeats, wondering all over again if he's had a stroke; as if Natasha ever had a goddamned baby sister. He thought she was joking, Christ.

“Yeah. Figured you're the best person I know when it comes to math problems.”

“I'm a genius engineer industrialist who graduated MIT at 17 and you're calling me for middle school math. Don't you know I'm busy?”

“It's AP algebra, come on, it's really tough. She's only 15, I swear she's some kind of savant but apparently this worksheet is too hard. And are you? Really? I haven't seen you up to anything. It's kind of unnerving.”

“Keeping tabs on me, Ivanova? Fine, okay. Take a photo of her homework and send it to me, I'll try and explain it to you in little words.”

She sends him the picture; he pulls it up on his display, squints at it for a few seconds. Round handwriting in a purple gel pen: she might even be telling the truth about it being her sister's homework.

“Okay, I see where she's going wrong. She's getting mixed up on the exponential function.”

“Uh huh,” Natasha says, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“Just put her on the line, I'll talk her through it.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says, “okay,” and he hears her murmur something before someone else comes on the phone.

“Hi,” she says, “this is Kseniya, Natasha says you're gonna help me? Honestly I cannot figure it out at _all_, you're a lifesaver. What am I doing wrong?”

“Well, your exponential functions are just entirely off,” Tony starts, and Kseniya sighs in a way that is weirdly and kind of adorably similar to Natasha when she's frustrated.

Natasha takes the phone back when they're done. “Thanks,” she says, “I would have just fucked that right up.”

“No problem,” Tony says, and realizes it's true: he just talked a teenager through her math worksheet, and he feels great. Better than he has in weeks; it's some kind of hands-on help and not just throwing money at a problem, even if the problem is only quadratic equations and a teenager who doodles little geometric hearts in the margins of her pages and uses so much vocal fry he's a little worried for her larynx.

“Well, I owe you one. Oh, on that, I haven't forgotten. I talked to Barnes. He said he'll let you take a look under the hood, if you still want to. Chat him up a little and you'd probably convince him he's due for an upgrade, he says he doesn't want one but he absolutely does. Make it pretty, everyone's sick of the damn metal. Gets cold in winter.”

He’d said it on a whim, almost a joke. The Avengers ended because of Barnes, because of Steve’s lies about Barnes, and here the guy is in this universe just casually living in Brooklyn and working for SHIELD like he never tried to assassinate the Director. Maybe he never did, fuck. Just like everything else it’s almost impossible to tell. Tony goes to Siberia a month after his brunch with Natasha, and nothing's there: just a burned-out shell that might have been a building once. He looks for his own anger and doesn't find it either; perhaps he's grieved for his parents already, worked through it all until he'd found something like forgiveness. It's been goddamn years. Decades. Kind of makes sense.

“So,” he says, “Ivanova says you want a new arm,” and Barnes rolls his eyes, makes a face that's fond and exasperated all at once.

“She's such a goddamn pain in my ass. I told her, all it needs is a tune-up. Getting a little rusty in the joints, I guess.”

“You sure? I could build you one with carbon fiber, haptic feedback. Body heat simulators. Big upgrade. We could even do a synthetic skin, silicone shell, something like that. Make it inconspicuous.” 

Barnes just looks at him for a minute. Chews his lip.

“If you could make this less conspicuous,” he says eventually. Reaches out, taps Tony's arc reactor, and Tony has to squash down the impulse to flinch. “Would you? Cover it with synthetic skin, hide the way it shows you're not all the way human?”

“No,” Tony says, too-honest; says it before he gives himself time to think about it, to dissemble. “It's me.”

“Yeah,” Barnes agrees. “Yeah. There it is, huh.”

“So no synthetic skin,” Tony says, trying to get back his equilibrium. “Carbon fiber would still look great. Matte black, it'd fit this whole gritty goth-twink aesthetic you've got going on.”

“I did always hate the fuckin’ star,” Bucky says. “Okay, fine. Show me what you got.”

“I'll show you mine if you show me yours,” Tony says, reflexive, and Bucky honest-to-god cackles. Reaches over and flips up the control panel, gestures at Tony to take a look.

He builds Barnes a new arm, builds Sam some new wings. Makes exo-limbs for Riley, the kind of thing he'd worked on with Rhodes. Something that'll support his spine through healing, help speed up the PT. It feels good, is the thing: something to focus on, something new that's not his old life over again. Something that’s not the questions which still rest heavy on him. He thinks about it for a day or two. Drives up the coast to find Pepper in her office.

“She's extremely busy,” her assistant tells him, warily eyeing him and the carton of summer-ripe figs he's holding, and Tony nods.

“I know. I won't bother her much, I promise.” Remembers, suddenly, that the last time around her assistant was Natasha—_Natalie—_and almost laughs.

“I'm extremely busy,” Pepper says, not looking up from her phone, “if this is a visit because you don't remember where you put your gym socks, I'm going to be mad.”

“Second drawer of the left-hand closet dresser,” Tony says, “you taught housekeeping to fold them up the way that cute Japanese woman does it because you like how orderly it looks.”

“Marie Kondo,” Pepper says absently. “Give me a minute, I need to finish this email before I lose my train of thought.”

“It's fine. I can wait.” He takes a seat, frowning at how uncomfortable her office guest chairs are; they should replace them with something more ergonomic. Picks up a paper at random from her desk: _arc reactor pilot, cost implications and proposed cities for initial roll-out._ It's immensely boring, but he reads it anyway. Grabs a pen, crosses out _Syracuse _and scrawls _Vegas _over the top of it. _Go big or go home, let's light it up. _Shifts in his seat, already antsy.

“Hey, Pep?”

“Hmm?”

“You think we could start a foundation? A charity wing of SI, something along those lines?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Assistive devices,” Tony says. “Exoskeletons, advanced prosthetics. Adapting the suit technology to work in injury and disability rehabilitation, that kind of thing.”

“Okay,” Pepper says. “That sounds remarkably altruistic, actually. How much should I assign in baseline for funding? Point five percent?”

“I was hoping a little higher,” Tony says, making a face.

“Give me a ballpark, then. Two percent? Twelve? What am I working with here?”

“I was thinking,” Tony says, “forty percent baseline.”

“Forty,” Pepper repeats. Puts down her phone. “Are you joking?”

“Is that too much? Can the company not take it? We could drop to thirty, I guess. I can fund the rest personally.”

“Tony,” Pepper says, “what the _hell_. I have a board of directors to report to, I can't just unilaterally reassign thirty percent of baseline funding. I'd be voted out under the emergency clause.”

“Twenty-five percent,” Tony says. “The board can suck it, I'll put together a formal proposal, I'll _document,_ all the i’s crossed and the t's dotted. It'll run completely above-board. Annual transparency reports, public tax returns, come on, Pep. Just give me twenty-five percent.”

“That's eight hundred and fifty million dollars,” Pepper says. “Per year.”

“There are a lot of people who need prosthetics and injury rehabilitation,” Tony says. “That wasn't a no.”

“Do the paperwork,” Pepper tells him, not hiding her smile, “and I'll talk to the board. See what I can do.”

She gets him the twenty-five percent. Drops by his house after the board meeting, still crisp in her white suit and dark lipstick, and hands him the meeting minutes: _Stark Industries to establish and fund non-profit organization, 25% of baseline SI operating revenue, effective immediately. _

“I had to convince them,” Pepper says. “A couple of them were less than enthusiastic. Worried about the stakeholders, the profit margins. Especially following the downswing in shares that happened when we moved away from weapons manufacturing.”

“How'd you sway them?”

“Oh,” Pepper says, “I reminded them that weapons manufacturing had proved to result in Stark Industries engaging in arms trafficking and direct collusion with terrorist organizations, and that they were lucky the entire board hadn't been investigated by the CIA in the wake of Obadiah’s arrest. And then I pointed out that as far as rehabilitating a company image goes, clean energy is _fine _but providing no-strings assistance to injured veterans is really up there in the big leagues. After that, I think they mostly came round.”

“God, I love you,” Tony says, and Pepper blinks.

“Um, thank you, I think. I'm glad you're happy.”

“No,” Tony says. “I'm serious, Ms Potts. Let me take you out for dinner.”

“Because I did a good job,” Pepper says, uncertain now. “And you want to celebrate your new non-profit.”

“Because you did me a favor you didn't have to,” Tony says, “and I'd like to have dinner with a friend I missed while I was busy being kidnapped.”

“Oh,” Pepper says. Blinks twice. “Yes. Okay. Dinner, sure, why not.”

“We don't have to go out,” Tony says. “We could order in. Sushi from Nobu, I know you like it.”

“Wow,” Pepper says, “Nobu, huh? I didn't realize you paid attention to what I liked.”

“Sometimes I do,” he says. “I even remember you're allergic to strawberries.”

“Wonders will never cease,” Pepper says, dry. “Perhaps three months in a cave wasn't all bad. Yeah, okay, let's order in. These shoes are killing me, and this suit feels like a straitjacket.”

“You, uh. Need to borrow some sweatpants?”

“I'll be fine,” Pepper says, smiling now as she kicks her shoes off. “I still keep an entire wardrobe here, on the assumption you'll want something and I don't go home for three days. Old habits die hard.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “I guess they do.”

He flies to DC to pitch the project to the military, and it goes over better than he thought it might. Rehab they're not having to pay for: he guesses that's a win. Natasha calls him after, barely ten minutes after his meeting finishes, and Tony rolls his eyes as he picks up the call.

“You need more help with your math homework, Rushman?”

“Nah,” Natasha says. Cracks her gum loud down the line. “Saw you were in town, I figured we could catch up.”

“It's a little creepy you're keeping such close tabs on me,” Tony tells her, “what, did you put a trace on me? Track my phone? Because if you did then I clearly need to revisit the security settings in the Starkphone interface, J is letting me down.”

“Don't be dumb,” Natasha says. “Rhodes told me you were coming over for a couple days. Well, he told Nick, and Nick told me, but it's all the same, right? So, you want to get a drink?”

“You know, I kind of don't trust you around alcohol,” Tony says, because the last time he's pretty sure that after the vodka shots there was Jagermeister and that after the Jagermeister he might have cried about Pepper, but he honestly can't be sure; it's extremely hazy in the way that most of his memories from around college through to 2002 tend to be. Natasha groans.

“Fuck, I was hungover for _three days_,” she says. “Don't worry, I'll keep it low-key this time, be civilized about it. Can't make any promises for you, though.”

“I resent that implication,” Tony says, and Natasha just makes a dismissive noise, blowing out a little puff of air between her lips; it's painfully familiar, the sound she'd made every time a mission was too boring for the effort involved.

“Whatever. I'll meet you at Dacha, it's a nice day and I want a pretzel with cheese dip.”

“Fine,” Tony says. Pretends she's having to convince him, even though he knows she knows it's a front. “But only because their currywurst is weirdly good. I'll see you there in an hour.”

“Also,” Natasha adds, “I do have a trace on your phone. If you can find it before you get to Dacha drinks are on me.”

She's already there when he arrives, sitting at a back table with a glass of white wine and a plate of fries in front of her. “You invited me to a beer garden and you're drinking wine,” Tony says, and Natasha shrugs, tilts her face up towards the sun. Her hair is braided, fluffy and escaping slightly along her temples, and he can see her squinting a little even through her sunglasses; it's sort of cute, even. She looks impossibly young, and impossibly relaxed, and he wonders again what the change was here to have her shoulders so loose, to see her with a smudge of ketchup at the corner of her mouth, a flannel shirt tied around her waist.

“I don't like beer,” she says, “but I like this place. Count yourself lucky I'm not taking you to either of the SHIELD bars, they're both terrible.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Tony says. Takes a seat, orders a beer. “How's Kseniya?” 

Natasha takes off her sunglasses, squints at him another moment. “You remembered her name,” she says, oddly intense, and then blinks, settles herself. “She's fine. Doing model UN in a few weeks, she's repping Estonia.”

“Digital capital of the world,” Tony says, “they're kind of embarrassing us with their IT solutions. You know they rolled out digital ID across the entire population back in 2002? And they're already using blockchain.”

“I'll pass that on. The whole family's already heard way too much about the Baltic Tigers and the collapse of the property markets post-financial crisis, I kind of think she's getting a little too into it. She's about one Wikipedia deep-dive away from learning Estonian just for the fun of it. I thought model UN was supposed to be about fooling around in the hotel pool and making out with the kid from Colorado who's representing Yemen, you know?”

“Since when do you know a damn thing about model UN?”

“I've heard things,” Natasha says. “I know people who had a regular high school experience. My friend Jimmy _definitely _represented Yemen at least one time. Anyway, what brings you to DC?”

“Had to meet with Rhodey,” Tony says.”Business, not fun. Though I guess it's both, it's always great to see him.”

“It's good to see you, too,” Natasha says. Winces a little as she picks up her drink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just walking wounded. Broke my collarbone a while back, I'm still on fucking desk duty. What'd you meet with Rhodes for? I'm assuming it's the same thing you clearly want to tell me.”

“Started a foundation,” he says. “The Research, Engineering and Support Centre for Users of Exodevices.”

“Huh,” Natasha says. Offers him one of her fries. “Neat. That your idea or Pepper's?”

“Mine,” Tony says, and sees how she looks at him: thoughtful, like she's assessing him and understanding a little too much. “What do you think of the name?”

“Seems to me like someone really wanted the initials to spell out RESCUE,” Natasha says, deadpan, and Tony laughs, can't help it.

“Says the person who works for _SHIELD_,” he says. “Remind me what that stands for, again? Anyway, I wanted it to be Really Elegant Solutions to Conundrums and Unorthodox Emergencies, but Pep told me she wouldn't let Stark Industries fund anything with such a dumb name. Also, she figured out it'd give me way too much scope for getting my fingers in shit I probably shouldn't be involved with.”

“She's got your number,” Natasha agrees. Shoves a couple more fries in her mouth. “So, RESCUE. Is that what you were trying out with Riley?”

“Yeah, I guess. It was Barnes that really gave me the idea. You know he's letting me build him a new arm?”

“Wow,” Natasha says, “that’s unexpected, you must have really sweet-talked him.”

“What's his deal, anyway? You told me Captain America's childhood sweetheart didn't wind up as dead as history thought, and you told me about the arm, but—I mean, come on, there's gotta be a history there. Nobody ends up with an advanced prosthetic like that from the US army, I know that much.”

He knows, of course. The arm, the history, but he's curious anyway; nobody seems to know who the Winter Soldier is here. He'd done his research, dug into SHIELD records, and all the file says is _Sergeant James Barnes, captured 1944. Repatriated to US 1999. _It's suspicious in its brevity. And maybe he just wants to know what Natasha will say, or not say; he can’t help but think she’ll know more than anyone else just the way she always does.

Natasha looks at him for a minute. Chews her fries. “He was a prisoner of war,” she says eventually. “Hydra. And then, when Hydra fell, the USSR. Took a long time to get him home.”

“And, what, he just managed not to age for fifty years?”

“Captain America went into the ice,” Natasha says, expression sliding shut now in just the way he remembers. “Maybe Barnes did too.”

“_Maybe?_”

“Come on, Tony. You know you're not gonna get all the secrets. Don't make me assign Coulson to you, he's nowhere near as fun as I am.”

“Coulson,” Tony repeats. Wants, suddenly and desperately, to ask. _Did he meet the cellist yet? Is he—god, is he happy? Have you taken care of him the way you've taken care of Barnes, somehow? _

“Yeah,” Natasha says. “Phil Coulson. My CO, technically, although these days I usually report direct to Fury. Or to myself, running the Avengers is fun that way. Speaking of, I better go. Wilson just texted me that he won't do my paperwork for me, which is deeply unfair, but it means I better quit fucking around here and go do it if I want to go home and see my sisters this weekend.”

“Where's home?” Tony asks, and Natasha looks up from her phone.

“New York,” she says. “Park Slope. It's nice, this time of year. You got a place in the city?”

“No, I'm all West Coast. Maybe I should get one. A tower with my name on it, isn't that what playboy billionaires are supposed to spend their money on? Oh, before you go, speaking of Wilson, I have a favor to ask you. Him. The both of you, maybe, I don't know what your management style is. I need an army and VA liaison for RESCUE. Rhodes is, what's the phrase he used, ‘too busy and important for your shit, Tony, I'm a full-bird Colonel, not that that means anything to you’ and the last time I tried to sell anything directly to the military I wound up locked in a cave for three months with shrapnel trying to shred my heart.”

“Sam's not army anymore,” Natasha says, “but you can ask him. He probably won't say no.”

“Probably,” Tony shrugs. “But it's always nice to ask.”

Sam doesn't say no, but he does say, “come on, man, I'll do it but I'm busy. Get Riley on it if you need someone full-time.”

It's not a bad suggestion. He needs way more than one person full-time: needs a phalanx of staff and a physical location, a building with enough space for technical R&D, exo fabrication, physical therapy and rehabilitation. Room for patients to stay while they get their prosthetics and exo-limbs designed and fine-tuned to fit them just right. There's an old base in upstate New York, enough space for everything and room to build the facilities they need; he only has to think about it for a couple of minutes.

“Setting up RESCUE in your neighborhood,” he says to Natasha over the phone. “Maybe I'll drop by for coffee sometime, didn't you say you have a place in New York?”

“I mostly work out of DC,” she tells him, “but you could meet Steve, if you've got any interest in your dad's most successful science project. Except for the new element he theorized, I guess. Have you come up with a name yet?”

“I tried to patent badassium,” Tony says, “but the scientific community and the Patent Office are such stick in the muds. Hey, why don't you come visit? It's upstate, I'll send you the address. Lovely place, you could stay for the weekend. We just finished remodelling. Lap pool, screening room, you'll love it. Bring your sisters. Or the Avengers, I guess, you're not exactly a huge team right now, there's room for you all.”

“I'm good,” Natasha says, very dry; it's enough to make him briefly wonder. Does she know, does she feel it in her bones: a base that housed them all, that was there right to the end? He can still remember the taste of the cement dust when it fell; she must be able to remember the years she spent there after everyone else was gone, and yet she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. “Did you want something, Tony? Other than to invite me to your state-of-the-art new facility.”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “I've got the facility, now I need the staff. I was kind of hoping there might be a few people at SHIELD I could poach. Figured you'd know some good names.”

“Christ,” Natasha sighs. “You're always like this, I swear. Fury is gonna yell at me when I tell him I'm giving up staff, but okay, I'll put together a list. Dr Cho, she's great on advanced prosthetics. We can probably fling a few bright-eyed kids with fifteen advanced degrees out of the Academy and over your way. Go back to MIT and offer an internship.”

He intends RESCUE to be just that: a facility to provide rehabilitation and assistive devices. And it is; it works great, better than he'd hoped. They get a cover on WIRED and a feature in Time magazine, Dr Helen Cho in her laboratory with the cradle and Riley with his exo-support. Tony doesn't make a thing of it; he's happy now to run it and get in the lab without needing to be in the middle of all the glitz of media attention. But he's sitting in the lab one day fucking around with bio-bonded electronics, neural interfacing, and thinks: _what if RESCUE did rescue._

“Automated robotic assistance,” he says. “HEROes. Hazardous Exit Robotic Observers. Search and rescue functions only, deploy them on a mission and they'll get civilians to safety.”

“Or catch a falling Avenger right out of the air,” Rhodes says, and Tony nods. Looks at his workbench for a minute and tries to take a surreptitious deep breath; he still hasn't forgotten the panic of Rhodey—well. Anyway.

“I figured it could be helpful,” he says, “that's all. If you wanna give them a go.”

“Well, I won’t say no,” Rhodes says. “How’ve you been, otherwise? I heard you’re refusing to go to therapy.” 

“Isn’t that supposed to be confidential? I’m sure it’s supposed to be confidential,” Tony says. “And where’d you hear that?”

“Pepper. She says you’re better than she expected, but you get a look about you sometimes. You’ve got her worried, giving her the company, making all these positive changes and refusing to talk to anyone about it. I think she thinks you're secretly dying.”

“I'm not dying,” Tony says. “Secretly or otherwise. I just… wanted a change.”

“Okay. You know PTSD is a real thing, right? You can’t pretend Afghanistan didn’t happen to you, man.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says. “I’m great, I’m processing. Afghanistan sucked, obviously, but it’s not the most important thing in my life right now. I’m moving on.”

“Are you?” Rhodes says, skeptical, and Tony nods. He’s—of course he’s moving on, he _died _and woke up again and everything is different now, he doesn’t suit up for battle and he’s making tech to fix people, that’s—that’s gotta count for something, right. It needs to count for something, if repeating all this is punishment for not doing it right the first time around. 

He could take the arc reactor out, maybe _should _take it out—it’s not like he doesn’t know now how to build one that’ll power the suits without sitting inside his own chest, and anyway, he doesn’t need to power the suits—and yet he doesn’t. Taps his fingers against it, thinks about his conversation with Barnes. _It’s me_. 

“Thinking of getting a dog,” he says, “a greyhound, maybe? You know you can adopt retired racing dogs? Seems kind of weird, apparently they're total couch potatoes.”

“Where'd you learn that?”

“Psych at RESCUE does animal-assisted therapy with a retired greyhound called Penny.”

“Thought you were refusing to go to therapy.”

“I am,” Tony says. “Or so you've heard, right? But Penny's a sweet girl. Couldn't hurt to adopt one myself.”

“You know JARVIS can't look after a pet for you,” Rhodey tells him. “Can't get a computer system to walk your dog, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony says. “You want another drink?”

“Only if it's not that fermented tea. Gimme a beer.”

“Kombucha is the new big thing,” Tony says, “it's probiotic, antioxidant, good for your immune system,” but he grabs a couple beers from the lab fridge anyway, cracks them open on the nearest benchtop.

He gets a dog. A two-year-old rejected from racing, pale fawn with a light face and dark eyes, and for the first three months he has to carry her up and down the stairs because she's too afraid to walk them herself. She gets startled by U and Dum-E, doesn't understand _sit _or the concept of being allowed on human furniture, and won't go to sleep unless she can see him in her line of sight.

“This is ridiculous,” he tells her. Sets up a crate in the corner of his workshop, takes her out to Rosie's dog beach over at Long Beach every day or two. 

“Since when do you have a dog?” Sam asks the next time he drops by the RESCUE facility to discuss new tech and catch up with Riley, and Tony shrugs. “Okay, I'll bite, what's her name?”

“Honey,” Tony says, and Honey’s ears prick up. “She's not mine, don't draw any implications. I'm just. Holding her for a friend, you know?”

“Sure,” Sam says. Lets her sniff his fingers before he strokes her head, scratches behind her ears. “Been thinking about getting a dog myself, but I dunno, I'm out on mission a lot. Steve wants a dog, though.”

“Rogers is basically a golden retriever all on his own,” Tony says, and then remembers a little late that he's never met Steve, isn't supposed to know that kind of thing. Sam doesn't seem to notice, just laughs at the joke, and Tony clears his throat. “So,” he says, “your new wing-pack, I've refined it. Tried out some triple-shape-memory polymers, played with nano-tube carbon fiber, I think you'll notice a difference.”

“What is this, Mark 16?”

“Mark 22,” Tony says. “Always improving on success.”

“Yeah, okay. How many hours have you slept this week, man?”

“Five and a half a night,” Tony shrugs, “if I don't go to bed by three Honey starts whining at me.”

“Wow,” Sam says, “I thought Riley was kidding when he told me you got a therapy dog.”

“She's not a therapy dog,” Tony says automatically, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Dr Yang brought Penny in and three weeks later you've got your own retired greyhound who sleeps in the corner of your office and comes with you to every press conference. She's a therapy dog, brother.”

“Get out of here before I downgrade you back to Air Force issue bullshit,” Tony tells him, and Sam grins at him, gives Honey another scratch before he leaves.

Tony spends so much time at RESCUE these days it kind of makes sense to get a place in New York after all. Not a tower—seems like tempting fate—but he tells JARVIS to look through real estate, find something in Manhattan. Winds up with a penthouse on Park Avenue, a view of Madison Square Park and the Flatiron building.

“You should come over this weekend,” he says to Pepper. “See the RESCUE facility, the new apartment, according to the plans there are like a hundred guest rooms. We can go see Porgy and Bess on Broadway.”

“You hate Broadway,” Pepper says, and Tony shrugs.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but you like it.”

“You're being very weird,” Pepper tells him, but she doesn't say no. Flies in on Friday afternoon, dressed down in jeans and a big white shirt, sneakers, hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“I figured,” she says, making a face at herself, “for a facility tour, I didn't think a suit—”

“You look great,” Tony says, “don’t worry about it,” and realizes even as his heart tightens and his head pounds that she doesn't dress casual around him yet; she's still used to being his assistant, his CEO.

They take a walk around RESCUE; Tony introduces her to Riley, Dr Cho, Fitz and Simmons in the research lab. Catherine Daniels, over in the physical therapy center, and she squints at Tony's chest and shoulders, makes a face.

“You're overworking your upper trapezius again, you let them keep tightening up like that and you'll be in for a world of hurt.”

“I know,” Tony says, “ugh, I know, it's just—”

“I've seen your research lab,” Cat says. Glares at him, pushes a braid out of her face. “Been hunching over things for seventeen hours? You know I have all the research kids down here now, trying to save them from RSI and computer-screen back pain before they hit twenty-five. You're not special, Stark, I'll give you a set of stretches.”

“You already gave them to me,” Tony says, and her glare intensifies.

“You've got no excuse, then. Don't make me get Fitz to reprogram that robot of yours so you can't work past midnight.”

“Oh,” Pepper says, warmly amused, “if anyone could get JARVIS to stop Tony working late that'd be a real miracle.”

“I'm feeling real attacked,” Tony says, “I came out to have a nice time today and I'm feeling personally attacked right now,” and Pepper just snorts with laughter, an inelegant little sound that Tony's missed so much his throat tightens up at hearing it.

They get into New York around twilight, head up to the penthouse to discover Tony’s made a major oversight in his real estate acquisitions.

“Tony,” Pepper says. Starts laughing again, looking around the barren room. “When you said ‘come stay at my new place’ I have to admit, I thought there would be. You know. _Furniture._”

“I forgot,” Tony admits, “I haven't been here yet, I had JARVIS buy the place but I—Jesus, I guess I just forgot about all the rest of it. You think IKEA would deliver anything in the next thirty minutes?”

“You're a billionaire, I'm reasonably sure you can get somewhere better than IKEA to deliver you anything at any point.”

“Is that an asshole move? I feel like it's an asshole move. Okay, I've got this. I have a plan. Can you just stay here for, like, fifteen minutes with Honey? I'll be right back, I promise.”

“Tony,” Pepper says, looks around again at the empty room before she shrugs, sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls Honey into her lap. “Go on. Hurry up, I'm hungry. If you're not back in half an hour I'm going to Olive Garden.”

“JARVIS,” Tony says in the elevator, and God, he still marvels at that occasionally. J in his ear; he’d never warmed to Vision, not really. “Find a homewares store that's willing to deliver two bedrooms worth of furniture as soon as possible. Actually, scratch that, gimme the number for the Plaza and I'll call them.”

“I live to serve,” JARVIS says. “Connecting you now.”

“Welcome to the Plaza, how may I help you?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, “hi. I'm calling to have you bring over a two-bedroom suite including the bed linen and toiletries. And a few couches.”

“You want to… book a suite, sir? I can certainly arrange that, we have the Vanderbilt or the penthouse Terrace available.”

“No,” Tony says, “no, I want—look, what's your name?”

“Tim,” the concierge says, sounding a little confused.

“Okay, Tim. I don't want to book a suite. I want you to bring a suite to me. The furniture, the lamps, the marble coffee tables. The fluffy white robes. All of it. Tonight.”

“That,” Tim says, uncertain now. Clears his throat. “That would be—you want to _rent _our suite furniture? We don't usually…”

“Rent, buy, whatever. I have a penthouse apartment and I forgot to furnish it, I have a house guest sitting on the floor right now and I know she likes the Plaza decor.”

“But,” Tim says, “sir, our suite fittings—I'll see what I can do but I've seen the interior design budget, I have to warn you it'll be extremely expensive—”

“Believe me,” Tony says, “money is not an issue.”

“It would have been far easier,” JARVIS suggests, once Tony has given the bewildered Tim the address for delivery, instructed JARVIS to let the Plaza staff in and direct them where to set up, “for me to simply book you and Miss Potts into a suitable suite.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, “that'd be easier, but what’s the point of owning a place in New York if you can’t stay at your place in New York? Sometimes you just have to be an asshole with money.”

“Indeed,” JARVIS agrees. “Anything else, sir?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Where's the nearest spot I can buy some really expensive champagne?”

He gets back to the apartment twenty minutes later, discovers that the Plaza is already delivering the first of the bedroom suites. 

“Third door on the right,” he tells the bewildered hotel staff, “thanks, buds,” and sets the bottle of champagne down on the floor for a minute so he can tip them properly.

“Tony,” Pepper says, “what the fuck.”

“You said you were hungry,” Tony says. “Me too, so I figured, you know, it's the best pie in the city. I got two kinds, I couldn't remember whether you're still vegetarian or your stance on mushrooms.” _Still_, like he doesn't know exactly what Pepper loves and what she doesn't: that macrobiotic vegan thing she'd done for a while before Morgan, how she'd gone back to grass-fed steaks and eggs from their chickens as soon as FRIDAY’s scans showed the blurry little dot between her hips. The way she looks, dirt-smudged and sweaty and a little sunburnt, when she's been in their garden all day thinning carrots and harvesting squash, zucchini, whatever. 

“I’m not,” Pepper says, “vegetarian, but I—how'd you know I was thinking about it?”

“You watched that documentary,” Tony says, shrugging. “Or read that book, who's that guy, you know the one. Insufferable.”

“Jonathan Safran Foer,” Pepper says. “It's on my nightstand in my to-read pile but you know, I just don't seem to have the time for it these days. Are you spying on me, Tony?”

“No!” Tony says. “God, no, I just—I could have sworn you were talking about it.”

“I'm teasing,” Pepper tells him, gentle, smiling, and Tony feels his shoulders drop. “Give me a slice, it smells amazing. You realize we still have no furniture.”

“It's on its way. I got us some glasses, though. Had to beg them off the pizza joint, so they're not crystal—I think they used to have peanut butter in them—but I figured it'll work. The Dom is chilled, at least.”

“You want me to eat pizza and Dom Perignon with you,” Pepper says, “on the floor, in your unfurnished penthouse, while hotel staff set up furniture you appear to have bought wholesale from their most expensive suite.”

“That's about it,” Tony agrees, and Pepper looks at him for a minute. Strokes Honey’s head.

“What's the other kind,” she asks, “cheese or pepperoni?”

“Cheese,” Tony says, flipping the boxes open. “Went classic.”

“Good choice,” Pepper says, and reaches for a slice.

The room is furnished by the time they're done, the staff taking the time to arrange the fresh flowers, set a candle burning on the sideboard, but Pepper doesn't bother to move to a couch. Just makes a pile of silk velvet and angora cushions on the floor and curls up in the middle of them, tops up her chipped glass with more champagne. 

“Can I give Honey my pizza crust?” she asks, and Tony sighs dramatically.

“It'll teach her bad habits. But yeah, go on. Just one, though.” 

Pepper grins at him. Offers Honey her crust, watches her sniff at it and then chew, very delicately, before jumping up on the nearest couch and settling herself down, front paws crossed and head lowered in what Tony’s privately started calling _snooze patrol._

“What happened while you were away?” Pepper asks. “You're different now.”

“I—got a change of perspective.”

“Obviously,” Pepper says. “No, come on, Tony, it's more than that. You gave me the company, you started RESCUE. Adopted a _dog._ James tells me you drink kombucha and spirulina now, your schedule says you have an hour of meditative yoga booked in every morning, and I saw you flinch when Dr Fitz offered you a test run on the new neuro-connective gauntlet he's working on. You're _different._”

“Rhodey says you're afraid I'm dying,” Tony says, and Pepper takes a breath. Nods, eyes big. Tony shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t tell her, but—it’s hard, is the thing, it’s so fucking hard, and here she is asking; what’s he gonna do. “I'm not dying. I already— uh. I died. Over there. Not for long, I got brought back, but… long enough, I guess.”

“Tony,” Pepper whispers, eyes wet, and Tony shakes his head. Waves a hand as if that'll brush it away.

“It doesn't matter,” he tells her, knowing it's not true; of course it matters. He died: how could that not matter in every way that counts? “I'm here now. But I guess that's it, right? I'm different. Maybe the guy they brought back wasn't the same one.”

“God,” Pepper says. Looks at him seriously, and Honey wakes up, jumps off the couch to crawl into his lap, rest her head on his knee. “You should have—you should have _told _someone, Tony.”

“I'm telling you,” Tony says. “You're the only one who… I guess you're the only one I'd want to tell.”

“God,” Pepper says again, and wipes her eyes with her knuckles, looks down at the smudges of mascara. Closes her eyes and presses the heels of her palms against her eyelids for a minute before using her fingertips to wipe away the mascara under her lower lashes. “You died.”

“Only a little bit,” Tony says. “Barely counts, right.” 

“Uh, I think it counts more than _barely_,” Pepper says. Takes a deep breath. “Would it be incredibly terrible timing if I tried to kiss you right now?”

“Yes,” Tony says, and sees her face fall. “No, I mean— yes, you should kiss me. That’d. That’d be great, actually, not terrible timing at all, you should—” and Pepper cuts him off with a kiss.

He wants to play it cool, desperately doesn't want to spook her, but he's not entirely sure he's ever been able to play anything cool in his life when it doesn't involve wearing sunglasses and pretending not to care. Even with the sunglasses there's no goddamn way he can pretend not to care, not about this, and he lies awake worrying it's going to tip her off, that she'll catch the intensity and say _hey, maybe we should just—_

“My lease expires next month,” she says one Sunday morning, casual, while Honey is bounding ahead of them along the tideline. 

“Your lease,” Tony says; it's such a banal thing he has to blink. “Wait, Potts, are you telling me you still _rent_? Am I not paying you enough? Do I gotta tell J to buy you a place somewhere?”

“It's a serviced villa in Hollywood Hills, not a shitty basement apartment with three roommates,” Pepper says, rolling her eyes. “And you don't pay me at all, not since I took over Stark Enterprises. I know you know that. But it just—you know, I'm never there anyway, and I kind of thought, perhaps we could—”

“Move in,” Tony says, “with me, you know the place is yours anyway, I'll put your name on the building, you can take over the whole closet and at least three of the bathrooms, I'll get a walk-in just for your shoes, you can even put up one of those_ live laugh love_ posters if you want to.”

“Shut up,” Pepper says, laughing; bumps her shoulder against his. “You know exactly who curated your art collection, I'll get the Rothko out of storage and you'll just have to put up with it even though you hate abstract impressionism. I don't know, Tony, you know I kind of hate Malibu.”

“It's a real dump,” Tony agrees seriously, “I can't expect you to live in squalor like that.”

“Shut _up_,” Pepper says again. “You're serious? I don't want to crowd you.”

“Pepper,” Tony says, trying now for serious. “You’ve practically lived in that house for years. Move in with me. For real.”

“Okay,” Pepper agrees, “okay,” and slides her hand into his, digs her bare toes down into the wet sand.

“Wait,” Tony says then, belated, “are you saying you've had a house all this time and I've never even seen it? I didn't even _know _about it, my own girlfriend's house, Jesus, Pep, how do you put up with me.”

“Oh,” Pepper says lightly, “I manage,” and squeezes his hand, just once.

Life—gets easier after that, or maybe it's just that he has a life, one entirely and comprehensively different from what he remembers both before and after the Decimation. Living with Pepper is a delight; it makes things simpler, learning all the tiny things about her all over again so he doesn't have to make himself forget, to pretend not to know them. He meets Agent Coulson, does his best not to be such a jerk this time, and maybe it doesn't entirely work but with Pepper there in the meeting, repping Stark Industries and signing off on the contracts for SHIELD’s new tech, Tony's natural level of assholery is probably at least a little smoothed out. He likes to think so, anyway, and Coulson accepts his invitation for dinner, so—it's something.

He's not an Avenger; there's nothing to avenge, but Natasha keeps him at least a little in the loop, and he's grateful for that too. Enjoys the friendship, he guesses, even as he comes up jarring and hard against all of her differences. She's changed through and through in ways he doesn't expect; it's the clearest reminder that wherever, whatever this is that he woke up in, it's not the world he left behind. 

“Hey J,” he says, “call Nat, would you?” and when she picks up on the fourth ring, Tony feels a little zip of happiness at hearing her over-dramatic sigh.

“What, Stark? It's almost midnight, don't tell me you need me to translate a menu for you again. Yelena's not around so unless it's Russian or French you're out of luck.”

“We're in New York this weekend,” Tony says, squinting at his schematics and reaching for a smaller wrench, “you have any plans for Saturday night?”

“None,” Natasha says, “why?”

“Dinner. Pepper and I, Phil and that cellist from the Portland Symphony Orchestra. I made a reservation at Marea, Pep wants Italian and it was that or Olive Garden.”

“God forbid,” Natasha says. “Since when are you and Coulson on socializing terms? That's terrifying.”

“Since I've been rolling out the HERO drones to active-duty SHIELD agents,” Tony says, “which you'd know if you ever called me. Or Coulson.”

“Oh, Maria mentioned something vaguely,” Natasha says. “I didn't pay that much attention, I figured it wasn't something I needed to stop you from doing. Marea, huh? Come on, you think I own a dress that nice?”

“Stop bullshitting, babe, you have that dress you wore to Evie’s wedding,” Tony hears Maria Hill say in the background, and wow, that's something he didn't know before now.

“Bring Maria,” he tells Natasha, “it'll be fun.”

“Triple-dating with a billionaire in Manhattan. Sure, okay.”

“_Babe_,” Maria says again, “we're staying over with your sister in a multi-million dollar loft, you're embarrassing me. Stop being a dick to Stark and come to bed.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, “stop being a dick to me and go join your girlfriend, Ivanova,” and Natasha clears her throat like she's embarrassed.

“Dinner,” she says. “Saturday. Okay, text me the details, it'll be nice.”

It is nice; weird, but nice. Coulson's cellist—Sylvia—talks about their spring season, rehearsals for Mahler's Fifth Symphony, Verdi's Requiem.

“Oh,” Pepper says, “that sounds great, we should go, honey, remind me to get us tickets.”

“God, that reminds me, I can't forget to go see Sveta's new thing. She's pretending to be chill about it but she's absolutely not, she said it's finally something that doesn't involve classical music and a tutu.”

“She's a dancer?” Sylvia asks, and Natasha nods.

“New York City Ballet. Just moved up to first soloist.”

“And does Marta still play?” 

“Yeah, Vasilia told her it's a good extra-curricular and we didn't buy her the damn violin for her to quit after two years. She's embarrassed about it, though. Honestly, I know leaving them in Siberia wasn't an option but Xenni and Marta are so obsessed with Kendall Jenner at the moment I'm a little bit afraid of what we've done to them.”

“Natasha asked Sylvia to give Marta some coaching when she was learning violin and couldn't read sheet music,” Coulson explains, and Tony narrows his eyes. 

“You made me help your little sister with her math homework. I see what's going on here.”

“Yeah, she'll do that,” Coulson agrees. “A few years back she had me giving Irina history tutoring after school twice a week. In my _office._”

“Which,” Natasha says, reaching for another sea urchin crostino, “is so full of Captain America collectibles it's a little embarrassing. It was a WW2 history course and Steve wasn't around yet, you were the best person to ask. Barnes was not helpful at _all_.”

“How many sisters do you have?” Pepper asks, twirling her pasta neatly around her fork, and Natasha smiles. Sips her wine. Maria snorts with laughter.

“A whole soccer team,” she says, “it's criminal that Mila is the only one who plays.”

“Just how many of you are there,” Tony says, squinting at Natasha. “It's concerning that there's more than one Ivanova in the world.”

“They're all Rusakovas,” Natasha says, “don't worry, there's only one of me. Nine of them, plus Evgenia just had twins.”

“You're an aunt?”

“Nadia and Natalia,” Natasha says. “Coming up on seven months, they're just about crawling. I get about five hundred photos a day.”

“Agents,” Tony says, mostly joking. “Nine agents and two tiny agents.” _Natalia, _he thinks, and files that away to consider later.

“I mean, I'm beginning to suspect Yelena might be. She's a great linguist, sure, but she's more terrifying than any SHIELD desk analyst should be. But Zhenya's an artist, and if she's moonlighting for SHIELD I'd be pretty surprised. She sold a painting to Anne Hathaway last month and didn't realize who it was, apparently she just ‘seemed really nice’.”

“Oh, Anne is lovely,” Pepper agrees. “I should see if she's free, it's been forever since we caught up.”

“What brought you to New York, anyway?” Natasha asks, and Tony shrugs like it's no big deal. It's not, really—they're in New York about as often as Malibu, these days—but yeah, there were specifics this time around.

“Meeting with a bunch of people at the UN. I figured, RESCUE is great, it's doing exactly what I hoped it would, but we could roll it out bigger. Modular RESCUE field units, full-body scanning and remote-operated CAD design, 3D printing for custom-build near-instant prosthetics. Take RESCUE to the people when they can't come to us, you know?”

“Cambodia,” Natasha says. “I still know a bunch of Unicef staffers there, I'll email you with the details.”

So that's that: he does charity work, walks his dog, pretends to learn how to cook. He already knows, figured it out by trial and error in the first year in the cabin, but it's worth it the first time he makes Pepper her favorite tarragon risotto, the grilled fig salad with goat cheese and hazelnuts, that roasted tomato soup he practised one summer until it was perfect. It feels good: it feels like a life. He almost, almost, doesn't miss what used to be there.

He's doing some more work on Barnes's new arm, running some microelectronics and adjusting the servos, when Bucky's phone goes off.

“That Steve?” Tony asks, not looking up from his work. Bucky reaches for his phone with his right hand, careful not to move.

“You know Steve wants to meet you,” he says. “Howard's son, and all. You're not gonna avoid it forever. And nah, it's not Steve. Nat.”

“What does she want, after-school workshops in self-defence?”

“Pfft, you think those girls couldn't take you down in three breaths even now?” Bucky mutters, and then draws in a sharp breath like maybe he shouldn't have said it. Tony glances up, sees how Bucky is chewing his lip. “Nah,” he says again. “Avengers mission. We gotta wrap up here, sorry, I have to gear up.”

“Almost done,” Tony says. Dabs a tiny bead of solder. “Okay, that should do it. Gimme five minutes and I can close you up.”

“Cool,” Bucky says absently. Texts, one-handed, frowning at his screen. “Nat's gonna pick me up from here, if that's okay by you.”

“No problem. It, uh. It a big mission?”

“Hard to tell,” Bucky says. “A big ol’ fuck-off robot, might be the same as that one in New Mexico a couple years back. Or some fucker in Latvia with a giant exo-suit. Looks like one of those, what’d they call em, jaegers. You know, that movie with robots punching monsters.”

“Pacific Rim,” Tony says, already half-checked out of the conversation by the time Bucky mentioned robots and exo-suits. Thinking about which suit would work best to take down something mechanical, whether he'd be able to trace back who's working on that kind of tech and why. Can't help but remember Obie’s giant overpowered suit, and suppresses a shiver. “Why'd you watch that, huh?”

“Steve loves Guillermo del Toro. We watched that one with the faun and right away it was like we were back in the New Masses offices with Steve yelling about fascism and Guernica. Anyway, jeez, forget I told you all that. Missions are combatant classified, you know that.”

“You're the worst at keeping secrets,” Tony says, closing up the panels on Bucky's arm, and Bucky just shrugs. Looks closer at him, frowns again.

“Don't do anything dumb. You got a look about you, Stark, it's the same expression Steve makes when he's about to do something real brave and real fucking stupid.”

“I'm not going to jump off something without a parachute,” Tony says, “all my suits are flight-enabled. Even the watch nano-gauntlet, if I need it. I just—maybe you could do with one more on this mission, right?”

“You want to join the Avengers,” Bucky says. “Shit, okay. Not my call, pal, but talk to Natasha when she gets here and I doubt she'll say no.”

She doesn't say no. “Why this mission?” she asks, looking hard at him, and Tony's glad he's already got the faceplate down.

“Feels personal,” he says, “if anyone's gonna be building big death robots it should be me.”

He sort of doesn't know what to expect, but it's a straightforward mission. Not the HERO drones, thank god; he'd thought inevitably of Ultron, dreaded the idea of that whole thing playing out again, but it's just a tinkerer with a few too many big ideas and a little too few scruples about selling tech to the Latvian mafia.

“I didn't know Latvia even _had _a mafia,” he says in the aftermath, stepping out of his armor so he can wipe the sweat off the back of his neck. Natasha smirks at him.

“Oh sure,” she says, “if Hell’s Kitchen is big enough to have its own organized crime then Latvia sure as fuck is gonna keep up. Hey, Steve. You doing okay? Thought I saw you take a hit back there.”

“Oh, I did,” Steve says, touching his thigh where there's a blood stain, a ragged hole in his suit. “Didn't hit anything bad, though. Bullet's just about out.”

“That's disgusting,” Natasha tells him, “go get Wilson to dig it out and stitch you up, I don't want you bleeding all over the fucking Quinjet.”

“Sam will be mad,” Steve says, making a face, “I'll be fine, it's not that bad.”

“Sam's already mad, you asshole,” Bucky says, smacking Steve's shoulder. “Just because your body spits out the bullets eventually doesn't mean you're supposed to _try and get shot, _Jesus Christ.”

“Wow,” Tony says, can't help it. “I thought my dad was joking when he said you were bullet-proof. Or that he was just making excuses for how shit the WW2 suit was.”

“Oh, he was,” Bucky shrugs, “that shit was basically just Steve prancing around in tights. Maybe a little padding on the chest, but honestly, I think Howard mostly liked the view. I mean, who didn't.”

“Aw, come on, don't tell me my dad was gay for Captain America.”

“Nobody was gay for me, Jesus,” Steve says, wincing as Sam sprays his thigh with disinfectant and uses a pair of surgical scissors to cut the fabric away. “And the uniform was fine.”

“Steve,” Natasha says, “you've got two boyfriends on this plane alone and I've seen the way you're looking at Tony when you think he's not looking, you're not convincing anyone.”

“Wow,” Tony says again. “I gotta admit, I did not realise teaming up with the Avengers would turn out like this so fast.”

“Sorry,” Steve says, flushing red now all the way up to his ears. “Welcome to the team, Tony, it's good to finally meet you.”

“Oh, I'm not _on _on the team,” Tony says. “Just tagging along.”

“Sure,” Natasha says narrowly. “You get one free round, Tony, but you come back again, you're on the team.”

He should probably have seen it coming: of course he's on the damn team. It's in his blood, or something equally dumb; he's got the bug, now he's remembered what it's like.

“I won't,” he says to Pepper, “if you don’t—I mean, I know it’s, you know, dangerous, I don’t want you to worry about me,” and she just shrugs.

“I know Natasha,” she says, like it’s simple. “You think she’d ever let you die? And it’d keep you out of my hair before you try and get another twenty-five percent for your newest great idea.”

“Oh,” Tony says, taken aback; he’d expected more resistance. Pepper laughs at him a little.

“Go be a hero,” she tells him. “Who knows, maybe you'll even get me in a suit one day.”

“God,” Tony says without thinking, “why haven't you married me already, Potts?” and Pepper starts laughing harder.

“Pretty sure that involves you having asked me,” she gets out eventually, and _oh, _yeah, that's something he hasn't done yet in this universe.

“Marry me,” he says, and then, remembering, “fuck, I, I planned this all out, wait, let me start that over.”

“You're a mess,” Pepper tells him affectionately. “Yes, Tony, I'll marry you, oh my god.”

“No, I'm serious,” Tony insists. “I _planned _this, Pep, let me give you the speech.”

“Fine,” Pepper says, clearly humoring him. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me why you want to marry me, Mr Stark. I'm listening.”

“Because,” Tony says, stepping forward; she's taller than him, in her heels. He has to look up at her. “I love you. You kind of—you figure these things out, when you go through the shit I went through. All the time I was alone. All the time I thought I'd never make it home, and all I could think about was you. How I'd never see you again. It's you, Pepper, that's just—that's how it is. It's you. It's always been you. That's all.”

So there it is: they're married, and he's an Avenger, and everything is so good and so simple he feels himself looking over his shoulder for what's inevitably coming next. He'd almost believe this was his life for real; there are days he doesn't remember what came before, lets himself forget it for whole minutes at a time. A life of memories that aren't quite his anymore, that exist under all of this like old bones that still ache in the night.

He’s tired, when he slips; that’s all it is. Just tired and a little cranky, hanging out with Nat down in his basement while he tinkers with Steve’s tac suit and Natasha gives him endless and unrelenting shit about Steve’s apparent crush on him. It’s so goddamn familiar it catches him unaware, and then: it’s too late.

“Give me a break, Romanoff,” he groans. Freezes when Natasha draws a sharp breath.

“How do you know—” she says, and Tony shrugs, carefully casual.

“I hacked SHIELD's files,” he says. “Sue me, I was curious.”

“No, you didn't. You didn't, because I've never used that name.”

“What do you mean, _never_,” he says. Figures he can still bluff his way out. “When they first brought you in, come on, don't bullshit me.”

“Nobody brought me in,” Natasha says. “I brought myself in. Introduced myself to Nick Fury: Natalia Ivanova. The only place who knows any different, I burnt it to the ground ten years ago. So how the _goddamn hell _do you know that name, Stark?”

“I,” Tony says, and stops: sees her seeing it. Eyes wide, already figuring him out.

“When are you from,” she asks, and that catches him again, a quick little startle under his skin.

“When are _you _from, huh?”

“2023,” Natasha tells him: quiet, like a secret she's giving up, but easier than he would have expected. “All the way to the end. You, too?”

“I—died,” he says. Shrugs, wishing he could make it look more casual. “All the way to the end. You—you were already dead.”

“Christ,” Natasha mutters. “Jesus _fucking _Christ, Tony, goddamn it,” and then she's gritting her jaw, looking him square in the eyes. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” he says. Very tired, suddenly; _god _he's so tired. “Yeah, Nat, it worked.”

“Jesus,” Natasha says again, voice cracking, and she's crying; it startles him. 

“You're different,” he says. “Aren't you.”

“Can't not be,” she says, “changed so much since I got here, of course it changed me too. I have a family now,” and her voice cracks again on the word. 

“Don't,” he says, “I—_don't, _fuck, please don't,” and it's not that he doesn't want her sympathy or her pity but just that he can't let himself think about it; can't think about it more than he already does. _Her name is Morgan_; _Morgan, kiddo, I love you three thousand, _Jesus _Christ _it hurts.

“So that's why,” she says later. “I couldn't figure out how you were making so many better choices this time round without me needing to nudge you to do it.”

“Been nudging a lot of people?” Tony asks, and Natasha shrugs, tilts her head in the gesture he recognizes.

“Wouldn't you?”

“I fired Stane. Soon as I got home. Had him arrested for kidnap and conspiracy, funding terrorism. Working with the Ten Rings. Can’t say I didn’t agonize a little over whether it’d butterfly-effect the whole world, making those kinds of changes. I didn’t know the—parameters, I guess, what it was I was doing here, but in the end I did it anyway. But you know that.”

“I stole the Tesseract,” Natasha says. “Hid it in my guest bathroom for a bit.”

“Jesus. Is it still there?”

“Nope. Down in Odin's vault, apparently, and Loki's in an Asgardian prison, so that isn't gonna be a problem.”

“Wow,” Tony says, impressed despite himself. “You really committed to those nudges, huh. Is that what happened with Barnes?”

“I burned Siberia down,” Natasha says. “And then I got us out. All of us.”

“All of you,” Tony repeats, and then realizes: the soccer team of sisters, Bucky playing the big brother to all of them. _You think those girls couldn’t take you down in three breaths? _He’s always known Nat’s history, the Red Room, the Hydra-adjacent training; he just hadn’t thought there’d be others. He guesses, by the time she’d joined SHIELD the first time around, there hadn’t been.

It comes up, inevitably: the question he’s been trying not to lie awake over. He tries to be casual about it, fails and knows he’s failing. Doesn’t really care. Nat’s let him see her tears; he owes her this much. 

“What, uh. What do we do about the big guy?”

“It might never happen,” Natasha says.”It might never—there are no Infinity Stones here.”

“Sure,” Tony agrees, “it might not happen _here, _but Thanos snaps his fingers in Asgard, half the world will still disappear here. That's not something I can just _hope _won't happen. I need to know how to stop him.”

“I don't have that answer,” Natasha says, “but I know where you could go to find it. It'll take a lot, though.”

“We went to _space_,” Tony reminds her. “How much more effort could it take, Romanoff.”

“Ivanova,” she says, “not Romanoff.” Looks down at her hands. “No, Tony, not the effort. The answer. You ask the Oracle, you won't get an answer without giving up something in return, and an answer like that? I don't know what it'd take. Everything, maybe.”

“What'd it take for you?” he says, and Natasha looks up at him again.

“You said I died,” she says. “I know that's true, but I don't remember it. Don't tell me; I don't want to know. I got this. A second chance.”

“I need to know,” Tony says, ”I gotta know,” and Natasha nods.

“I figured you would. I just—couldn't let you do it without knowing, right.”

There's some kind of weirdness about finding this, what, this _Oracle_. Natasha doesn't know how to get there, or says she doesn't; Tony's not sure.

“Sif took me,” she says, chewing her lip. “Seljalandsfoss, in Iceland, but it was just a doorway, Sif said. The Oracle's magic, not anything out of Asgard.”

“Jane Foster's gonna have words with you about describing anything outta Asgard as magic, you know how she is,” Tony says, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I don't know, Tony. You know anyone who's good at portals?”

“Bleeker St,” Tony sighs, “ugh, fucking _magicians_,” and half an hour later they're on the doorstep of the goddamn Sanctum with Natasha giving him a real edgy look like he's been holding out on her. “What?” he says, getting tired of it, “you bullshitted me about Barnes, you think I wasn't gonna hold something back? Just because you engineered a better world for us all doesn't mean I'm gonna give SHIELD everything, you know that.” Then the door opens—a bald woman in a yellow robe, a face that could be youthful or ancient—and Tony takes off his sunglasses. “Hi,” he says, “you don't know me but I just need you to wave your hands around, do a little glowy thing and throw me through it. Pretty sure it doesn't matter what's on the other side.”

“Tony Stark,” the woman says. “Seeking a portal, and my sister. The answers of the universe aren't meant for mortals, but she seems to have favored you once before, little spider.”

“Once,” Natasha agrees. “I'm not greedy. I gave up enough in return. But he's got questions too.”

“And you've got an Infinity Stone, so I'm pretty sure the answer to that question is going to be pretty damn useful in figuring out whether your little secret society is safe here,” Tony says. Can't help but glance at the Time Stone; fuck, he hates magicians and their knowing-too-much nonsense. The woman's eyes narrow, and Tony sees, briefly, the same expression Stephen Strange had given him.

“One portal,” the woman says. Gestures broadly. “I cannot promise she will answer, but I can give you the doorway,” and then there it is, an honest-to-god glowing hole in the fabric of the universe, and all Tony's gotta do is step through it—

He's in space. He's in space, again, floating alone in that vast dark expanse of star-stuff, and this time nobody's there with him, not Nebula or his suit, no helmet to record a last hopeless farewell, a love letter full of all the things he should have said to Pepper and somehow never did, he's _alone_— and then, suddenly, he isn't.

“Hey, Iron Man,” Natasha says, and she's Natalie Rushman the way he only dimly remembers now, Natasha the first time around when he was so much more of a fucking mess.

“Nat,” he says, “wait, am I—is this—”

“Tony Stark,” Natasha says, only now she's got Wanda’s face, her voice, her magic flickering scarlet at her fingertips. “The futurist.”

“You're the Oracle,” Tony says, regaining his bearings. “Your sister says hi.”

“Calling herself the Ancient One,” the Oracle says. Laughs a little like she's remembering a joke. “And she's eons younger than me. I always wanted a little sister.”

“Did you?” Tony asks, bemused by this entire cosmic situation, and the Oracle shrugs. 

“I grew up an only child,” she says, “but I knew it was coming,” and the last four words come out childish, sweet, so familiar it'd hurt less if someone just pulled the arc reactor straight out of Tony's fucking chest. 

“_Morgan,_” he says, throat tight, and he knows Natasha had been trying to warn him but he hasn't—how had he not—surely someone should have _said_. She's not even dead: she never existed to die. 

He swallows, hard. “Oh god,” he says. “Hey, kiddo. You know how much I miss you?”

“I miss you too, Daddy,” Morgan says, and he knows it's not her, it's just a multidimensional cosmic entity wearing her face, he _knows_, it's just—

“Please,” he says, “don’t, please don't, I can't—” and, mercifully, the Oracle shifts again.

“I didn't mean to be cruel,” she says, eyes black and head tilted in observation just the way he remembers Nebula doing when he said something unexpected. “Some mortals long for it. Would beg me only for that single boon: a face to whom they can say farewell.”

“I don't,” Tony says, “I'd never—I won't,” and Nebula nods.

“Compassion isn't unknown to me, Anthony Stark, but there are bargains that must be struck with the universe. Truths come easier when you speak to a face that's heart-familiar even in the losing.”

“I've lost others,” Tony says, “you could—god, haven't I lost enough?”

“She told you the bargain,” the Oracle says, not unkindly. “You knew the score, coming to me.” But she shrugs again, and as her shoulders settle Maria Stark is looking back at him: his mom just the way he remembers her in the glow of his childhood bedroom lamplight. Not an uncanny BARF simulacrum; her eyes are warmer, softer, and Tony nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “Natasha told me the score. An answer for an answer.”

“Then you know,” the Oracle says, his mother's voice gentle, “the knowledge you would give up?” and he didn't, not really, didn't know until then, Natasha warned him but he didn't know_, _and the worst of it is he knows it's got to be done. If Thanos is coming, coming _here _to _this world _with Pepper and Rhodey and Honey, Natasha’s hundreds of sisters and their sun-dappled house in Park Slope, Phil goddamn Coulson and his fucking violinist girlfriend and their dinner dates Tony keeps somehow setting up, Dr Cho and Cat Daniels and all the other scientists he's poached for RESCUE, the way Pepper curls in against him and presses her forehead against the nape of his neck at night, if Thanos is coming for _all fucking that_, he needs an answer like a silver bullet and he can't grieve forever for a daughter he's never had. He knows it, right down to his bones, his cells, his atoms, and he closes his eyes for a minute. Opens them again.

“Her name is Morgan,” he says. “You'd love her, mom.”

“I know,” the Oracle says, “I do,” and that's it: his daughter, her mouth sticky with juice pops. Blanket forts and bedtime stories, the weight of a child in his arms, her face cradled in the crook of his neck. Pepper's face radiant and still sweaty from pain and exertion, and their baby red and tiny and screaming so loud Tony had laughed out loud without meaning to. A cabin upstate; Pepper's pregnant belly under his palm and the sudden flutter of Morgan kicking. How Pepper had kissed him one morning, looking out at the mist on the lake, and said _what are we waiting for, the end of the world? Let's make a baby_. The first time Morgan had looked at him and said _dada_, how Tony had been so entirely taken aback by it she'd gotten tired of waiting and spat pureed pumpkin all over him. _I love you three thousand. I love you three thousand, kiddo._

He's on his knees when he opens his eyes again, and the Oracle isn't his mother anymore, or anyone else he recognizes from any of his lives. A girl—a woman—maybe a little younger than Natasha, dark eyes and brown hair that glows like it might turn auburn in summer. A jawline that looks like he should know it somehow, on someone else's face.

“I promised you an answer,” she says, “and here it is. The Infinity Stones aren't bound to only one universe. Did you think they were that paltry? You erased Thanos from existence. From all of existence.”

“So he's—” Tony says, “he's— he's gone.”

“In this world, he never even existed to be gone.”

It takes his breath away. A fear that’d lurked at the back of his mind: the terror that it’d all dissolve into ash, that he’d be left behind even more alone than he was in space with nobody but Nebula and a helmet to record his last message into.

“So that’s it,” he says eventually. “That’s it. But if that’s—if that’s how it ended, then this world, what is it?”

“It’s a world,” the Oracle says, deliberately opaque, and Tony frowns.

“A world, sure. But how’d I get up here? I died, I know that much. You gave Romanoff a second chance at fixing regret. Am I the same? Because I have plenty regrets, and the desert isn't where I'd have started on that front.”

“Seeking another answer,” the Oracle says, “that isn't how it works,” but she smiles a little. Shivers into another form: Pepper, but a version of her Tony doesn't recognize either. She's older: lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth, freckles blooming across the bridge of her nose. She looks how Pepper might look in ten years time, if she gave up her suits for organic farming; it's strange and familiar all at once. Her smile broadens then, gaze softening. Looks at him, steps forward. Cups his cheek. “You did good,” she murmurs. “The powers that built the multiverse? They thought you deserved a second chance too. Not at regret. Just at happiness. Twelve billion options, and this was the one with the most likely outcome.”

“Because of Natasha,” Tony says, closing his eyes. “And her nudges.”

“You woke up where your life began,” Pepper says, ghosting a kiss over his mouth, and then he's waking up again in his own bed, a Malibu sunrise lighting the room up golden and Pepper curled up behind him with her arm slung over his ribs just like always.

“My alarm is going off in three minutes,” she murmurs against the nape of his neck, and Tony blinks.

“J,” he says, “snooze Ms Potts’ alarm for the next five hundred years, would you?”

“I have a meeting,” she protests, and Tony shrugs. 

“You run the company. You _own _the company. It can wait.”

“It really can't,” she says, but she doesn't move: just kisses him behind the ear, her breathing slowing until he knows she's about to fall asleep again before she jerks awake. “I have a meeting,” she says again, and this time Tony rolls over, kisses her forehead.

“Morning,” he says. “How did you sleep?”

“I dreamed we had a kid,” Pepper says drowsily. Tucks her hand under one cheek, blinks slowly at him. “A baby, a little girl. It was so _real, _god.”

“You want to?” Tony asks. “We could.”

“No,” Pepper laughs. “No, come on, I'm running a company, how would I have a baby.”

“I could be a stay at home dad,” Tony says. “Wear her in a little papoose to all the board meetings.”

“You don't come to any board meetings,” Pepper points out, “you’re not even on the board.”

“Can't argue there,” Tony says, “I guess I'll just have to teach Honey to babysit,” and he's been half-joking until now but something flips inside him like a series of tumblers all falling into place and he knows, suddenly, that he would, that he will, that their future will include all this. “We could, you know. Not right now. But—someday.”

Pepper blinks again. Moves her hand out from under her cheek, pushes her hair out of her face. Touches Tony's temple. “You really want to,” she says, questioning, and Tony nods.

“I really want to,” he says, and it feels like he's never told the truth until right here, right now, this room with the morning unfolding warm and golden around them. “Yeah,” he says, “I do, I really do,” and thinks: _I woke up where my life began._

**Author's Note:**

> thought I was done in this universe but guess I wasn't, also thought I wasn't huge on Tony Stark but I guess that was a lie too, we've all learned something about ourselves today


End file.
